


The Hours

by Barb Cummings (Rahirah)



Series: The Barbverse [12]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Drabble Sequence, F/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-19
Updated: 2009-11-19
Packaged: 2017-10-03 09:53:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahirah/pseuds/Barb%20Cummings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he had a soul, it would be damned. She's never been sure about the God sitch. But they make a joyful noise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Seven drabbles on a theme. This story is set in the same universe as _A Raising in the Sun_, _Necessary Evils_, et. al. (See the [Barbverse Timeline](http://sleepingjaguars.com/buffy/viewpage.php?page=timeline) for specifics.) It contains spoilers for previous works in the series. Persons who feel that sex, vampires, and riffs on religious imagery are unmixy might want to avoid this one.

Matins

Tonight, they lived. They get home long after midnight. Wolf down a snack, watch a little TV, head upstairs. Demon's blood swirls down the drain as soap-slick fingers soothe aches from raw skin and stiff muscles, but not a drop of _her_ blood goes to waste. Afterwards, there's tangled limbs and pillow talk muffled in deep drowsy kisses. They body-surf slow rolling waves of pleasure, up the crest and down into troughs of sated sleep. He lies wakeful, smoke curling ceilingwards from the cigarette she pretends not to know about. Breathing as she breathes, and keeping vigil against the night.

Lauds

When approaching sunrise silvers the edges of the curtains and pellucid light fills the room, she wakes. He sleeps: Dark lashes fan an ivory cheek, lips part to draw breath he does not need. At her touch, his flesh arches and swells, filling her hands past overflowing. She has raised a menhir red as the eastern sky, a pagan altar-stone for worship. Milky liquor pearls like morning dew upon her tongue, rich and bitter. Demon's eyes open, gold lapsing to raptured blue at sight of her. The sun rises as he does, and as the dawn comes, so does he.

Prime

She wakes to the glorious combo of his cock thrusting within and his hands busy without. Flowers of fire bloom ecstatic on her eyelids and she comes eyes closed, thrashing and mewling beneath him, fighting the pillows. He growls into her hair, fangs locked in mock-bite on her nape. With every stroke she's wider awake--eyes open now, she waits her moment, and _squeezes._ He comes instantly, eyes saucering, and hardens in another instant more, but it's too late--she's flipped him like an egg, over easy for all he acts hard-boiled.

Beats her old alarm clock all to heck.

Terce

The back yard's ablaze with midmorning sun and she's late, late, late, no time for newspapers and footsie under the table. Grab makeup, grab coffee, grab toast. Then he grabs her, swings her squealing onto the kitchen counter, wedges himself between her spread thighs and scratches that sweet hot itch through layers of denim and nylon. Her mouth's painted with jelly, not lipstick. He licks her lips clean, then tongue-fucks her till she squirms against him and the squeals turn to moans and coffee-warmed, bittersweet kisses. The toast pops and she smacks him, laughing as she races out the door.

Sext

She feels a little guilty slipping away to the bathroom. Some days she can't help it. The average couple has sex three times a week. She read that in Cosmo, or maybe it was National Geographic. She doesn't need a magazine to tell her they're not an average couple. Lean against the cold white tile, imagine it's cold white flesh. Knead and pinch and tease and think of him: knees akimbo, eyes half-lidded, languid half-smile as he strokes the marble column of his cock. Think of him, and come hard, knowing that somewhere across town he's coming thinking of her.

Nones

She loves skating--the rush of cold air and the sting of ice crystals as blades cut circles in the ice. When she was small it was the nearest thing to flying she could imagine. Now she soars across the rink like a stooping falcon, her class a flock of fluttering songbirds in her wake. Her world, but the sewers connect out here, too. Days he's got a spare moment, she catches his fox-sharp grin through the plexiglass, angling for a glimpse of firm round arse beneath the short skirt. Those days, her next class is a little bit late.

Vespers

Weapons have their place. Make him feel manly. Sword, quarterstaff, axe--good stuff, but can't beat when she takes him on without, bare hands versus bared fangs. Strike and counterstrike, no punches pulled. Nothing like the singing joy of knowing in your bones where the next punch will go, and taking it regardless, just to take the piss out. He dances back, laughing and spitting blood. Comes for her again straightaway. Maybe she'll go down. She loves it too--says it's all business; his nose says otherwise. Makes him hard, makes her hot--who says business and pleasure don't mix?

Compline

It flings Hummers aside like Tonka toys, rips up parking meters to bash in their brains. They attack with fists and fangs and blades, hornets maddening a bull. Two tons of hate-driven teeth and horns and armored hide--when it falls, they fall together. Battered, blood-streaked, she turns battle's jubilant ferocity on him, mouth savaging his, fingers deepening the bruises their foe left. He roars triumph, slams her down against the cooling carcass. Cloth shreds, buttons fly, and dead flesh spills a paeon to survival into living. This night, their cries are of passion, not loss. This night, they live.

END


End file.
